Lera Auerbach, The Trouble Clef

July 07, 2013

Congratulations to Lera Auerbach, whose opera will premiere on Tuesday and continue through July 14 at Lincoln Center's Kaplan Penthouse in NYC. Read more about the opera and Lera's extraordinary life and genius here.

April 11, 2013

I’ve grown too impatient to read long poems.
After a while my eyes start shifting like dancers
who’ve missed their entrance cues. I find –
I am reading a different poem all together
than the one on the page. I close my eyes.
The letters are dancing and chewing my eyelids,
like tiny caged rodents, sharp teeth protruding,
their round eyes almost blind,
their whiskers trembling, trying to smell through.

This new poem I am reading in my mind is related
to the one in the book, but as a distant cousin,
the family ties are vaguely remembered,
some childhood memories, a gray photograph,
taken at some forgotten occasion,
but not much else ties them together.

The long poem is starting to look like a shopping list.
Each item is a new line, the stanzas form departments,
where all the words are labeled and neatly
packed in rows on parallel shelves.
I’m forever lost in its aisles, in the endless labyrinth,
where each detail is screaming
to be noticed and appreciated.
I am taken hostage by the advertisements,
the cleverness of its commercials,
coupons, attractive packaging,
already forgetting what was on my list.
What was that I was looking for
when I started reading, and feeling –
oh, so, so inadequate.

The long poem turns into a dark ancient forest
and I am a child lost in its meanings,
the unfamiliar verbs are howling like owls,
announcing the arrival of the twilight time.
It is not yet the night, but it’s chilly already
and the long arms of the shadows are touching my feet.
Alarmed and still hoping for a last minute happy-ending miracle
or at least for some understanding or a familiar sight -
I rashly turn pages, feeling slightly embarrassed
of my impatient flight, and vaguely suspecting
that some part of me is still lost in the maze
in the complex associations and hidden meaning
of that long poem, in its hostile branches and roots
of incomprehensible words, and that small part of me
may never be rescued from its crowded pages,
and I will never know what happens at the end.

March 30, 2013

I am in the middle of writing a book – collection of random thoughts, musings, daily fragments. Here are some of them:

On self:

Wondering wanderer in search of wonder, always lost, never found, profane and profound; round and round circling sounds in the maze of the page, musical sage, child of the times, enchanted by rhymes, seeking connection in all forms of art, forgetting her part in everyday matters (invoices, letters), not knowing left from right, hiding alone in a secluded hut, dying from a papercut.

. . . . . . . .

On art:

If there is consensual love, there must be consensual art, but great art is never consensual – it rips you apart, uses you for its creation, and then leaves you like an empty useless shell. You may resent it, but you can't help loving it all the same. You may deny your lover, but you can't deny your calling.

. . . . . . . .

On work:

I never know what to say when asked about my occupation. It's such a strange word! How can one occupy a profession? And does it imply that you are taking forcefully someone else's space to which you have no right? Suddenly, your job takes the form of a war zone and you stand alone and lost, staring at a hostile blank page.

. . . . . . . .

On age:

Young people are unashamed of big words or concepts. Avoiding them is a sign of maturity; scorning them is a sign of an old age. You are as old as the skeptic within you.

. . . . . . . .

On books:

My grandfather always requested that I wash my hands before touching a book. He worshiped his library. To bend a page was a sacrilege worthy of spanking. “It’s only a book. It’s not going to break,” I would object. “Write your own books. Then see if they are breakable,” he would answer.

. . . . . . . .

On progress:

There is no progress in art. Art denies Darwinism. Stravinsky is not better than Mozart and Mozart is not better than Bach. Picasso is not better than Rembrandt. There is no progress – only linguistic or stylistic changes reflecting the times.

March 24, 2013

If Venice is married to Death - the small island of San Michele is the offspring of this union. It takes an entire day to visit San Michele, the legendary Isle of the Dead. The entire island is a cemetery, which resembles a labyrinth consisting of many contrasting sections, almost like miniature islands within one larger island. One of the most striking and memorable "rooms" of this labyrinth is the children’s section: children’s graves, most of them recent, with photographs, toys, flowers… On marble stones kids’ faces are so painfully alive, smiling, laughing, celebrating the joy of their too fleeting lives. The contrast of their youth and their surrounding is heart-wrenching. We do not associate death with youth, yet children are much closer to that vast non-existence from which we all come from and where we all end up, and the thread which binds them to that "forever beyond" is much shorter than with most adults.

A turn in the labyrinth of San Michele – and a 19th century cemetery comes into view, with forgotten graves, some half-decayed, names no longer decipherable… Another turn – and an island of gravestones for nuns appears all neatly organized in rows like brave little soldiers conquering the heavens.

A narrow path leads to an open sea of flowers of the most recent graves – after 12 years of temporary residence in San Michele, they will be transported elsewhere. At San Michele, the post-mortem real estate seems to be just as coveted and unattainable as guaranteed indulgences. One more twist of the road - and the foreigners' section is found. The Isle of the Dead is home to many famous artists.

Visiting Isola di San Michele in Venice was a sort of pilgrimage for me. The impact of Sergei Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky in music and theater, specifically their collaborations in Le Noce, Le Sacre du Primtemps, Pulcinella and Petruchka, was the most influential in the 20th century. Their legacy is felt by every living composer, choreographer and producer today.

In death, they stand as they stood in life: Diaghilev’s overpowering large gravestone and Stravinsky’s modest plate without any overstatement, but at the center of attention by visitors.

I am always interested in the offerings the living bring to the dead. Diaghilev's grave is covered with… ballet slippers. Real, worn ballet shoes which dancers bring as offerings of their gratitude to him. On Stravinsky's grave there are also several glued pieces of paper with handwritten music, offerings from composers, perhaps.

Next to Stravinsky is the gravestone of his wife, Vera. Her grave is the mirror image of his, yet her stone-plate is covered with leaves, and there are no "gifts" of burning candles, slippers or music pages. Even in afterlife, she is in his shadow.

View from Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev grave - still looking over his company

Here lies Igor Stravinsky

A musical offering...

Stravinsky speaks about the creation of The Rite of Spring and playing it for the first time for Diaghilev in Venice.

Joseph Brodsky's work was introduced to me in Russia when I was thirteen. His name did not mean anything to me then. Simply someone once gave me a few typed pages with his poems. My teenage reaction was one of shock. His work was unlike anything I had read. His poetry was real, it spoke to me in a powerful way, it was a calling, a recognizable, irresistible voice addressing me directly. It was impossible to ignore. When I arrived to the United States in 1991, one of my wishes was to meet Brodsky. This meeting happened, and his support of my work meant the world to me during that crucial time of my life when everything I knew was left behind.

Brodsky's wish was to be buried at San Michele. He visited Venice often, always in the winter. This was the city of his love if one can be in love with a city. Yes, Venice, more than his native St. Petersburg, was the city of his dreams; Venice, with its glorious decay, its endless reflections, its past so vast that it already contains its future.

Brodsky's grave is simple yet beautiful, with overgrown flowers and many special offerings from visitors. There was a cigarette on his grave-stone (he was a heavy smoker), a Watermen fountain pen (his favorite brand); someone left a few old Soviet coins, which I personally thought would not be the most welcomed gift by this deceased. And, of course, candles and flowers.

Joseph Brodsky's grave

Poet's essentials

Brodsky, Venice and grapes

In a somewhat ironic twist of fate - not too far from Brodsky lies another famous poet, in many ways Brodsky's opposite – Ezra Pound. Pound's grave is large yet unkempt.

I spent long hours wandering this cemetery, listening to the seagulls, deciphering the writings on the graves, and thinking of Time. Time is always abundant in Venice. Venice is cradled in Time just as it is draped in death. This cradle song of death is comforting, quiet and peaceful. In a world where everything multiplies and doubles with reflections, San Michele provides perspective which widens the horizon and unearths the essence.

Sometimes, before falling asleep, I imagine what it would be like to spend a night at San Michele, listening to the moon-beams splashing the water and the occasional cries of birds. I imagine the ghostly concerts and poetry readings featuring that never finished symphony or a poem and wonder if the dead are just as curious about the living as we are about them.

March 15, 2013

Arriving home after several months of travel, and while taking some time to recollect experiences by organizing photographs, I came upon images of one of the most memorable trips of last year. It was my first visit to Brazil, where I performed a Mozart piano concerto in the city of Curitiba with a superb orchestra led by Maestro Osvaldo Ferreira.

Brazil made an indelible impression on me. After my performances in Curitiba, a modern city with all the 21st century commodities, I spent ten days traveling and learning about this mysterious, vast, multi-cultural country, buzzing with creativity. I took a detour to a part of the world both terrifying in its isolation and achingly beautiful - the last point of civilization before the great expanse of Amazon rainforest between Brazil and Colombia. Twelve hours by fast boat from Manaus lies a small town on the south bank of the portion of the Amazon River known as the Solimões. It is called Tefé, no roads lead to Tefé. It is only reachable by boat or small plane. Lonely Planet describes it: "It’s not that there is anything wrong – it’s a perfectly agreeable place, just not particularly memorable." Yet, it was in Tefé where I found one of the most extraordinary sites in all my travels.

The heat and humidity were unreal. As I walked from the port up the hill, I saw hundreds of large black birds circling up in the distance. Soon I realized these were vultures. The image was unsettling yet hauntingly beautiful, so I walked towards the birds. The heat was melting the sole of my sandals. After about half an hour, I reached the gates of the place I was looking for. What I encountered is a memory that will stay with me forever. A cemetery that was a charnel ground, with some of the most chilling (in spite of the heat) yet mesmerizing images of a place for the dead. Here are some of the images:

Vultures on top of the cemetery gates.

These vultures are very large. Majestic birds, really. Despite their bad reputation, vultures are saving this town, working as a full-time cleaning crew. They do not attack the living, they feast on the dead. I saw them playing with the local dogs and cats. They appear as gigantic awkward chickens in the backyards. The locals seem to ignore them altogether. When something is always present, we stop noticing it.

I have always been fascinated by cemeteries and try to visit them wherever I travel. The beautiful ruins of Tefé's cemetery is a feast of colors and shades.

Crossed perspective

The smudges on this gravestone look like a modern painting. And all these shades of blue...

Petals and leaves fall on the gravestones from the branches of the trees. Pink tears.

I took over thirty photographs of this grave. This child captured my heart.

Wisdom, understanding, strength, mercy, fear of G-d, science are all buried in here.

Beautiful ruins and open graves in all their glory

Life goes on. A cemetery is as good of a place as any to dry your laundry.

May 07, 2012

The Russian-American composer Lera Auerbach, endowed with many talents and currently enjoying the success of her opera "Gogol" in Vienna, has expanded her large-scale Requiem into an Ode to Peace. Auerbach composed the work for the renowned Saxon orchestra as composer in residence.

Cosmopolitan as the prolific composer is, she does not only fill out the Frauenkirche up to the dome with the large choral and orchestral forces, but also has the world in its entirety pictured before her mind's eye. In the Kyrie, for example, the text is set with an almost papal eloquence in 40 languages at once with tympani and trumpets, without any fear of being influenced by the great models of the genre. The settings of central prayers of Christians and Jews are also self-assured in their utopian approach, as are those of Hindus, Buddhists and Moslems as well. The fact that one must read along in order to find one's bearings in the polyphonic, indeed mellifluous text in the space of the Frauenkirche is most likely part of the concept of a human utopia of harmony in the longing for peace.

Auerbach seeks to bridge the gap between the wound of Dresden and the present day. The so-called Dresden Amen, already used by Wagner in Parsifal, repeatedly appears. One also hears the text "Peace, Where God Dwells" by Dresden's own Christian Lehnert, engraved in the peace bell of the Frauenkirche. But there is also a reminiscence of 11 September 2001 with Father Judge's prayer.

Auerbach has composed symbolically charged music that perfectly fits the special performance space. The audience (who did not applaud in the church but observed a minute of silence) hardly resented the fact that she did not offer unsettling novelty but instead sought to make a direct effect with the entire impact of the orchestra and choir. There are, at any rate, only a few islands of calm reflection - such as "In “Silentium", which beguiles with simple melodies - in the layering of surging songs and of skilfully varied melodies pervaded by orchestral vehemence. Otherwise, high-pressure emotion dominates, always gaining new impetus through the orchestra and choir spurring each other on, leading again and again to a sweeping stream of sound.>>>

April 01, 2011

I have to apologize to the readers of BAP for my disappearance. One of the reasons is that I am in the process of completing an orchestral score for the upcoming premiere of my opera Gogol in Vienna. It is a large-scale opera with three acts, full orchestra, two choirs (adult mixed choir and boys), dances and the cast of fifteen characters.

Since yesterday was Gogol's birthday, I think it would be appropriate to share with the readers of BAP a short interview I gave last week via email about Gogol. While the actual interview will be published in German, here is the English version of it.

GOGOL INTERVIEW

1) Why are you fascinated by Gogol?

Gogol, born a Ukrainian cossack, is often considered the father of modern Russian literature. He was a writer with a rich and conflicted inner life, able to bring to light, in the most vivid form, the tragic nature of the human condition. His writings are even more relevant today than they were during his time.

2) Which story is reflected in your opera "Gogol"?

Before starting my work on this opera, I reread the complete works of Gogol, as well as over twenty books written about him. For the opera, I wished to create not a historical account of Gogol’s life, but a dreamlike vision of his inner passions, his madness and genius. Opera is above all a drama, the ultimate dramatic expression. Some operas based on historical events and real people, such as Mussorgsky's "Boris Godunov", can also be viewed as tragic fairytales for adults. "Gogol" is ultimately a Russian opera, and Russian history is a nightmarish fairytale from which this country may never awake.

3) Which character is Gogol in your opera? Is he a tragic person or is he funny?

Gogol was a deeply troubled man, possessed by fears. He became religiously obsessed and began to believe that he brought real evil into this world through his writings. A priest, whom Gogol trusted, ignited these convictions and encouraged Gogol to burn the 2nd and 3rd volume of the "Dead Souls". Gogol's deep seriousness is what allowed him to become a great satire writer. This opera is ultimately tragic but has dark humorous undertones. As an example, Bes (a demon), who is Gogol's adversary, but also in many ways his alter-ego, often ridicules Gogol. Bes' comments can be grotesque, yet they also ring of truth. In a tragically distorted manner, Bes, whom Gogol passionately fights and fears, also represents Gogol's consciousness.

4) First you wrote a play and then the libretto. Why are words not enough? Why do they need music? Which dimension can you express with the music?

The play and the libretto are two separate entities. The play is complete without music. The libretto is an adaptation of the play, specifically crafted to be a partner to the music. Opera is one of the most complete art-forms: music, text, staging, and drama are all part of the whole. As librettist for my own works, I have an ideal collaboration with the composer.

5) In what way is your regional provenance important in your music?

Although I have lived half of my life in the West, Russian culture and music are part of my DNA.

6) What do you think is generally characteristic of your music?

Let music connect directly to the listener regardless of the composer’s own attempts to interpret its essence. Jorge Luis Borges wrote “A man sets himself in the task of portraying the world. Over the years he fills a given surface with images of provinces and kingdoms, mountains, bays, ships, islands, fish, rooms, instruments, heavenly bodies, horses, and people. Shortly before he dies he discovers that this patient labyrinth of lines is a drawing of his own face”. Sapienti sat. Cetera desunt.

September 03, 2010

So yellow as ifdefending this colorwas its only quest;as if painted by an artist,obsessed,unaccustomedto shade;as if stitched by mid-summer’s sun;made with delicate silk in the ancient country long gone,the canary swingson its wooden swing,claiming its cage(golden princein exile).It glances at methrough the bars –and sings;sings far better than any sounds I try to capture. As in rapture,some birdly ecstasy,perhaps,its song shimmers,almost visiblein the slight rips and tears at the edgesof the air in peripheralsof the cage. I humbly retreat,leaving crumbsfor a treat,my modest offeringof shame:I have the freedomto fly and rejoice,but where ismy voice?

May 07, 2010

The mechanism of memory is
complex. The Time Machine--a dream
of dreamers--was created long ago. It is human memory. And I am certain that we have been
granted the power to remember everything; that in the depths of the human brain
are preserved imprints of every moment we have lived in past and future
lives. The only complication lies
in the ability “to find” them in the labyrinths of memory. To find them by
secret guiding signs: smells, a familiar place, a certain refraction of light,
everyday trifles.

To unwind the ball of string as
I make my way to my beginnings.

I am my memory, the sum total
of all the moments I have lived.
Moreover, my "I" divides and multiplies: I am an infant, and
an elderly person, and an artist, and a thief, and a murderer. All of these possible past incarnations
of mine swarm past in my subconscious like phantoms, and when I begin a
monologue in my own name (as I see myself at this very moment), I inevitably
put it into the mouth of a phantom from my own midst. And that which seemed to me to be sincere and the only true
thing when I was writing is only one facet of a thousand and, like the crooked
mirror, does not reflect the features, but distorts them. Although who knows, perhaps only
crooked mirrors tell us the truth.
I see crowds and crowds of people.
Among them are artists, captains, artisans and kings, musicians and
circus performers, milkmen and murderers.
And all of them are me. And
every time I begin to wind the thread that leads me out of the labyrinth toward
the light, instead of exiting I fall into a new labyrinth. In each of the labyrinths a Minotaur
lies in wait--sin that arrives from my former incarnation. And my goal is to kill the Minotaur.

The characters are wearing masks, one transmutes into another. A
mirrored hall, where the mirrors reflect one another, fracturing the
reflections. A carnival of phantoms; bifurcation, disorder, division of my
self.

April 02, 2010

When
one thinks of Rachmaninov, usually what comes to mind is his face, serious and
stern, clean-shaven, with a short modern haircut. His expression is distant and
cold. He looks like a British gentleman, not easily approachable, always well
dressed, with a posture of self-confidence if not arrogance. Then one may
remember the endless tales of Rachmaninov’s depression, his legendary gloom,
the trademark-able depth of his Russian soul. Yet to me Rachmaninov’s name has
always been linked to joy.

Back in 1991, at the time of my immigration to America, alone and far from home
for the first time, an ocean and an era away, I decided to compile a
cassette-tape, which included music that would give me hope. At the first sign
of despair, I would play this tape. Rachmaninov’s 2nd Piano Concerto (I
believe it was Ashkenazy’s recording) occupied the first half; the second half
was shared by Bach, Mozart, and Stravinsky. This antidote to depression
must have worked, as I managed to survive my late teens, accompanied by the
opening bells of Rachmaninov’s concerto and Bach’s “Ich Habe Genug”.

The Second Piano Concerto of Sergei Rachmaninov is one of the most frequently
performed works in the world. The generosity of its writing is overwhelming and
it is a pure joy to play. I was so excited to perform it for the first time
- I still remember the burning feeling of anticipation while standing
backstage and waiting for the stage call.

His
piano writing is truly idiomatic – the texture lends itself to the pianist’s
hands – rich, sonorous, passionate. This music is so generous that the most
common performance problem is over-involvement or over-interpretation, which
may result in sweetening the richly cooked meal and thus spoiling it.

Rachmaninov
was a modern Western man who traveled the world and even lived for several
years in Dresden, long before his decision to leave Russia permanently in the
turbulent year of 1917. We tend to forget this, but Rachmaninov was an American
composer, an American citizen, who always loved his cultural Russian heritage
but was able to embrace his adopted country fully. He lived for 26 years in the
United States in New York and in Los Angeles and died in Beverly Hills in 1943.
He was known to have a great sense of humor in private circles and was a connoisseur
of good food and wine.

Sergei
Rachmaninov never trusted the Soviet government, which repeatedly tried to
entice back famous Russian artists who lived abroad, such as Stravinsky,
Prokofiev and Rachmaninov. Only Prokofiev chose to return to the Soviet Union,
which was the gravest mistake of his life. But that is another story for
another time.

In
the US, Rachmaninov’s main occupation was as a concert pianist. His piano
recitals were legendary. He was adored by the public and critics alike.
However, as a composer, he was unfavorably reviewed by the music critics. He
was a contemporary of Stravinsky, Debussy and Schoenberg. The
pressure of the avant-garde was everywhere. Rachmaninov, who early on
developed his own musical language, (one can always recognize his music from
listening to just a few seconds) found himself an outsider in the mainstream of
Western musical development. He was deeply troubled by this, yet his attempts
to conform would create only greater failures in his own eyes.

The
Piano Concerto no.2 was composed between the fall of 1900 and April 1901. Rachmaninov performed the 2nd and 3rd movements on Dec. 2, 1900. The complete work was
first performed on October 27, 1901 with the composer as soloist and his cousin
Alexander Siloti conducting. The concerto is dedicated to Nikolai Dahl, a
physician who helped Rachmaninov restore his confidence through hypnosis.
Prior to this concerto, Rachmaninov’s 1st Symphony and his 1st Piano Concerto
– both premiered in Russia – were complete fiascos, which resulted in his
depression and loss of confidence. The 2nd Piano Concerto was Rachmaninov’s
creative resurrection and affirmative “Yes!” to his ambition as a composer. Rachmaninov was 28 years old when he composed it. He was in love and about to get married
to Natalia Satina. This concerto was his first mature work.

Let’s
imagine him at that time. All the upcoming turmoil of his life – the
Revolution, concert tours and American immigration are still far ahead. He is
only 28, in love and has just finished his most ambitious work. He smiles
shyly and proudly closes his manuscript.